


The Star And Its Captain

by ElenCelebrindal



Series: Quenta Quenelya [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angry Erestor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle, Canon-Typical Violence, Half Canon Compliant Half Canon Divergence, M/M, Not Beta Read, Protective Elrond, Protective Erestor, Rivendell | Imladris, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29595063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenCelebrindal/pseuds/ElenCelebrindal
Summary: Erestor is forced to fight, once again. But his blade is eager, and his resolution is the one of a warrior. Imladris is in good hands. Or so Elrond hopes.Set during the War of the Ring: Imladris is under attack, Glorfindel is away on his own mission, and Erestor is the only one that can guide Elrond’s warriors without putting his lord on the line.Not really an explored relationship of this fandom, but although important in this story, the main focus is still on Erestor. Give it a try!Mind the initial notes of the chapters, please, they’re important.
Relationships: Erestor/Lindir (Tolkien)
Series: Quenta Quenelya [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152818
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not a native English speaker and don’t have a beta, so please forgive any mistakes you may find. I use «» for the dialogues, because they are way more common in Italian than quotation marks. 
> 
> They all speak Sindarin, unless otherwise specified, or unless you see dialogues in italics. 
> 
> Some short explicative notes, if you haven’t read “The Weary Counselor” in this series: Erestor is one of Maedhros’ guard captains, the most loyal, and he settled down in Imladris as a counselor to protect Elrond. A good handful of other followers of Maedhros and Maglor resides in Imladris, though only some of them are warriors (Maglor’s, mostly). 
> 
> Since we don’t have any kind of information about Glorfindel, after his – unfortunately brief – appearance, I decided he could be away on his own mission to kill servants of the Enemy. Since he’s the captain Elrond’s soldiers, they were left without someone to guide them. 
> 
> If you’re curious about more notes on the story head to the last chapter, where I put basically everything (Christopher Tolkien style). I talk too much, and this universe is not well defined yet, so I wrote all of them there. You don’t have to read them, but they are definitely helpful.

The departure of Glorfindel, eager to unsheathe his sword to draw orc blood, had been permitted by Elrond only after consulting his counselor. The elves of Imladris deemed it a good choice, but for all the wrong reasons; sure, Elrond knew he could count on his counselor to, well, counsel him, but the reason why he approached Erestor before letting Glorfindel go was different.   
In fact, he reached out not for counsel, but for reassurance.  
Reassurance that Erestor, if the need presented itself, could take the reins of his warriors in lieu of Glorfindel.   
At first, the counselor had been reluctant, but old flames rekindled in his eyes upon listening to his lord, the same flames Elrond recalled from his younger days. Erestor was en elf forged by war, and in battle he rejoiced.   
Tired, guilty, but a warrior with a fire that had never been fully quenched. Only the Age before, Erestor was ready to say he had abandoned the sword in favor of his much more useful quill; in that Third Age, it was obvious the Noldo yearned for the clash of the battlefield once again.

The same morning of the day Glorfindel set out to ride in search of some enemies, Erestor came down from his chambers to tell him he could go.   
His expression, Elrond could never mistake it, was the same he wore in the days of Beleriand, undaunted and fierce. The warrior resurfacing behind the counselor.

Ten days had passed, since that morning, and Elrond was roused from his sleep by a heated conversation happening outside his window.   
Still drowsy, the half-elf took a while to pinpoint the voices, and eased his frown upon recognizing Erestor and Lindir, but his features didn’t relax. Though he was aware of how the somewhat private gardens of the royal wing were open to his counselor and steward, Elrond couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing there so early.   
By the looks of the sky, the Sun wasn’t even up yet, stars still weakly twinkling where its warm sunrise light couldn’t reach.   
Not only that, they seemed to argue, which worried the peredhel deeply.

Not wanting to intrude, but still concerned – for Lindir and Erestor had been a warm-hearted couple for a handful of centuries now – Elrond rubbed away remnants of sleep from his eyes and got up, rather than falling back asleep until proper sunrise.   
There was still clean water in the basin standing at the corner of his room, alongside a shelf on which plush cloths waited to be used; it was cold, freezing almost, but Elrond gladly accepted the icy bite on his skin, finally waking up fully.   
Water droplets trickled down his sleeves, wetting them uncomfortably, but all Elrond cared about at the moment were the voices outside.   
Lindir’s especially, normally calm and collected, outright gentle even towards the most ill-mannered guest; never, in his stay at Imladris, the younger elf lost his temper. That morning, while birds were still silent and no tree was awake yet, Lindir’s voice was tainted by displeasure, and he raised it more that he’d ever did.   
Irked, not furious, but still uncharacteristic for someone as kind and patient as him.

Erestor, on the other hand, sounded comparatively calmer, if not with a touch of guilt in his tone. Elrond couldn’t discern their words, as his window was closed and he wasn’t about to open it in order to inquire, but he could imagine what was going on.   
With a sigh, he resigned himself to a day of bitter words and expressions.   
It seemed, to the lord of Imladris, that Erestor finally mustered some courage to tell Lindir about his true identity.

«Were you ever going to tell me this, or was Glorfindel riding away the only reason why you finally spoke?».   
Tone as harsh as his expression, Lindir looked at his lover and waited for an answer, frustrated more than angry; nothing, in the entirety of Arda, could have prepared him to what Erestor decided to tell him before the Sun even rose.   
Learning that Erestor was a warrior, in the First Age? That, in his book, was fine. He could understand why the Noldo hid that from him – or everybody. It was nothing of importance, at first sight.   
Learning that Erestor was one of Maedhros’ captains? That he had raised his sword in two Kinslayings? That he was still, to that day, faithful to his lord?  
Lindir didn’t lash out at Erestor only because he, despite the situation, could understand what string of thoughts and fears told his lover that hiding his past was a good idea. But his irritation was still there, because Erestor could have said something, anything, instead of just… playing his role as a counselor and never opening up to the one person he loved.

Lindir never questioned why Erestor always chose the steward’s private rooms, instead of his own, why he seemed so scared that day when Lindir simply asked to know why he kept hiding the pendant of his necklace.   
Now, upon learning what he never discovered by himself, he knew.   
It was the first thing Erestor showed him.

_Lindir woke up, eyes still heavy with sleep, only to find Erestor standing far from the bed, undressed and disheveled, but emanating a gloomy aura that sent a shiver down his spine. His dark hair, darkest than Lindir’s own, fell like a curtain on his face.  
Only his eyes, glowing with a light that was of the Trees, could be seen in the shadow.   
In Erestor hands, catching the silvery shine of a pale Moon, was that pendant that Lindir never gazed upon. When he asked if anything was wrong, worried, the younger elf received no answer. Instead, Erestor made his way back to the bed, took his hand in his own, and placed the pendant on his palm.   
He closed Lindir’s hand around it, kissed him on the forehead, and left. A goodbye, it seemed.   
Stunned, not knowing what to think of the strange behavior of his lover, he opened his hand; his breath hitched, when he saw what Erestor had placed there.   
A eight-pointed star, finely casted in mithril, with thin rays in its crevices. _

«Answer me!», Lindir exclaimed, his voice rising again. «Please», he then added, softly.   
Despite the argument, he did not want to lose him. He couldn’t love another, that much he was aware of. Erestor, with his grumpy ways and his stern expression, was the only one he ever wanted. He _just_ needed to know.

Slowly, Erestor shook his head. He didn’t miss the flinch of his lover, but he also didn’t want to serve him easy lies.   
«I was hoping never to tell you», the counselor admitted, stopping in his tracks. The garden surrounding them was beautiful and close to curious elves or guests, but it was also a large space, and they were nearing a place where others could hear.   
Sighing, Erestor took a seat on the nearby bench and waited for Lindir to follow, almost breathing in relief when he actually sat down with him.   
«But I am growing restless», however he added, fidgeting with the star around his neck. «I thought… I deluded myself, I fear, for a life of peace and ink is not one I am accustomed to».   
Glorfindel going away and Elrond subsequently gaining his word to be back as a warrior in time of need only rekindled that desire of action at a quicker pace. It was already there, already gnawing at the corners of his mind, demanding for the fire to roar high again.

He wanted to protect Lindir from his past, and to protect himself from the consequences that such a history brought with it. Both selfish and selfless, some traits that had become recurring in his life. In the end, it didn’t work out.   
«Glorfindel was merely the excuse I needed, but sooner or later the truth would have come».   
The admission left him in silence, for Lindir didn’t respond. For a while, the only sounds were the gurgling of water, and the chirping of some birds waking up in Anar’s first rays.

«I will understand, if you leave me», Erestor filled in the silence, not daring to look at his lover. «I am a kinslayer. You would be wise, in your decision».

For a while, nothing moved, only leaves and plants swaying in a soft breeze.   
Lindir’s mind was overwhelmed, his heart ached, his spirit suffered upon hearing Erestor talk like that, talk like he didn’t deserve a single sliver of love. It was difficult, and confusing, and everything was happening so quickly, but the younger elf refused to give up.   
To give up his life, his beliefs, and his love.   
Kinslayer as he was, Erestor was not a bad person.   
Not even a single one of Lindir’s memories, from beginning to end, told him that Erestor was a bad person. He was caring, diligent, but never ill-tempered. He spent his days in loneliness, away in the library, his sometimes only company Elrond or Glorfindel. Lindir never saw him lash out at somebody, not even what one of their guests accidentally spilled wine on him.   
He had a constant frown upon his brow, and his bright eyes were never clear of grief, but he was, _undoubtedly_ , a good person.

That he was a kinslayer, Lindir could handle. He wasn’t a fool, he knew that sometimes loyalty came with the impossibility of having a choice. That Erestor, in his faith towards Maedhros, was linked to the Oath just as much as the sons of Fëanor were.   
It was a slow to seep through knowledge, that the sons of Fëanor didn’t wish to lay misery and bring dead to their kin, but it was spreading. Like water splashing above rocks, it was chipping away at the wicked idea everyone had of the cursed line of Finwë.   
Voices of Maglor, still lost in his wandering, forcibly breaking the Oath were not just nighttime stories. Voices of Galadriel singing her mourning and being listened to were not just fun anecdotes.   
The war against Sauron, hopefully coming to its rightful end, was changing the shape of their Doom.

But even without that awareness, even if Lindir had no idea of how the tides were changing, he wouldn’t have hated Erestor as much as the counselor-no, the warrior wanted him to.   
At first, when Lindir first arrived in Imladris, much younger and naïve, he had been scared. Scared of the dark counselor that always kept to himself, silent if not for brief and formal exchanges, scared of the ancient light in his grey eyes.   
But then, gradually, he tried to approach him. At first with official matters, than with formal conversation, until they grew close enough that their bond could be called friendship. When off-duty, Lindir started spending more and more time with Erestor, keeping him company in the library, slowly becoming friends with Glorfindel as well.   
Then, Erestor started finding excuses to spend time with him. He would knock on his door, after dinner, and ask for his company to stroll around under the stars. They started having dinner together, and then lunch, breakfast, until their time together was as much as they could allow themselves.

After what to Lindir seemed an entire Age, during a night with no Moon, Erestor finally smiled and raised a hand to his face, gently stroking his cheek, as he leaned down to kiss him.

Never, in all that time, Erestor gave the impression of being a bad person.

«Do you love me?».

Erestor made an effort not to wince, at how Lindir’s voice seemed broken, trembling with uncertainty. He closed his eyes, squeezing them as if he could chase away the darkness in his heart with the one in his vision. His hands, resting on his lap, fisted at the fine robes he was wearing.   
He hated to hear Lindir so crestfallen.   
Every time his tone faltered, or his steps hesitated, may it be because of the unending strain of tending to the Last Homely House or because of his fear of that unending war, Erestor’s heart wept a bit more. And now… now the reason for his dejection was but Erestor himself.

«I love you», Erestor nodded, though he couldn’t help his own voice for breaking. He had seen so much suffering, so many loves die never to be rekindled. He longed for the battlefield, but would never forget the blood of the innocents.  
Maybe, now that Lindir was surely about to leave him, it was time to open his heart. One last time.   
«I thought… after Doriath, I thought no one could ever love me, for my deeds had been sinful. After Sirion, I thought I could never love anyone, for my sword drank too much blood of my kin», he confessed, eyes still shut. He could hear his voice missing some steps. It wasn’t important.   
«Elrond and Elros saved them. Saved us. When Nelyafinwë told me to stay behind, to stay with the twins and protect them, I was beginning to think that maybe love existed for me».

His family, warriors no less than him, had died soon after reaching Beleriand. Slew by Morgoth’s evil forces, first victims of the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, they left their son without someone to comfort him, to love him. For centuries, the only love Erestor harbored within himself was the love for the battle, for the music of sword against sword, for the black blood he so madly drew from his enemies.   
Elrond and Elros, young as they were, gave him back that love he had lost.

«And then, Imladris became my home. Elrond my lord, and the sword weighted no more in my hand. I stopped dreading the future, though I still weep for the past».   
A bitter smile made its way on his lips, and Erestor sighed: «When you came around, it was like the asphyxiating fog of the Enemy had risen. I could breathe again, like I could not do for limitless ages».

Finally, he opened his eyes, glistening with unshed tears, and gazed at the sky painted with gold, red, and blue: «Do I love you, Lindir? I never loved someone harder than you. I never loved someone deeper than you».   
As Erestor spoke his next words, those tears feel on his cheeks: «I do not deserve to love like I do. Let me go, for you have no need of a kinslayer taking place in your heart».

A sharp intake of breath was all he needed , before reaching Erestor’s chin with his hand and turn the Noldo towards him. He was shaken, in disbelief, but never, _never_ he was going to accept what he just heard.   
Lindir looked at his lover, in those old eyes of Valinor, and pulled him in a kiss. His own tears fell alongside Erestor’s, but he refused to let go. He refused to untangle himself from the hug he asked soon after.   
There were no lies in the Noldo’s voice, as he spoke.   
What Lindir feared was that he was not loved, but his fear was no more.   
«A kinslayer you might be, but I care little», he said, resolution clear in his statement. «Evil hearts cannot love. And you… you love with the strength of the stars».

Lindir added nothing more to his words, merely keeping him close, and heard Erestor sigh. Then, his stronger arms encircled him.   
Warrior or counselor, there would be no more fights.

Sun high in the sky, Erestor emerged from his rooms dressed for the day. After his discussion with Lindir, who mirrored him and went to his quarters in order to get himself presentable, the counselor went on with his duties.   
As it had been made clear, no rift was to be formed between them, and the Noldo’s heart sung too happily for him to complain. Now, clad in dark robes – for he didn’t deem appropriate donning the red of his lord after such a quarrel, he made his way towards the patio overlooking the valley.   
A harpist was already filling the air with melodious music, and Elrond sat at a table arranged with breakfast and a pitcher of watered wine. Lindir, standing beside him, blinked slowly at Erestor in greeting.   
«My lord Elrond», Erestor addressed him, with the slightest bow of his head. «My apologies for being late».

Elrond dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand, and nodded to the empty seat in front of him; he would have asked Lindir to sit at his table as well, but his steward was adamant in following etiquette, always saying that a mere attendant could not accept such an invite.   
Erestor was an exception. Much like Glorfindel, he was someone of ancient origins, but it wasn’t just out of respect that Elrond gave him a seat at his table.   
Despite their apparent distance, necessary between a lord and his counselor, Elrond was fond of Erestor. He was one of the people that always cared about him, back in the day, ready to aid him in learning the art of the sword when Maedhros couldn’t, and ready to help whenever needed.   
Erestor stayed at his side during the days with Gil-galad, truly hated by many of his people but unwavering in his duties. He endured harsh words, insults, threats, all for the twins’ sake. When Elros sailed away, his goodbye one that really hurt, Erestor was there to comfort him, more than any of the elves that followed from Amon Ereb.

Loyal, always, no matter what.

«Lindir, may I ask you to leave us for some time?».   
To ask his steward such a thing wasn’t something Elrond necessarily wanted to do, but he had to know if his counselor – and former caretaker – was well. Lindir didn’t seem bothered, and that deeply reassured him, but then again both of them were capable of hiding their emotions better than anyone knew.   
The heated discussion he accidentally overheard in the morning left him with scraps of worry dancing around in his head. It died down quickly, as far as he could discern, and it wasn’t his business, but Erestor was too important for him.

Surprised, Lindir merely gave his lord a bow and nodded: «I will be back before you finish your breakfast», he assured, ever responsible, and left the two elves to themselves.   
Far from him to protest, when Elrond asked.   
Moreover, now that he knew of Erestor’s past, he could understand even better why his lord seemed so close to the counselor.

Before expressing his confusion about sending Lindir away, Erestor poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it, barely scrunching his face; the taste of watered wine had never been one of his favorites, but it accompanied well those sweet baked buns he loved.   
Then, raising an eyebrow, he shot a glance at Elrond: «What is it that you need to discuss with me? I doubt is something of major importance, otherwise we would be in your study», he asked, breaking a sweet bun before tasting a piece.   
The flavor of honey invaded his mouth, and Erestor savored it; so many years, and he still _loved_ to be able to east something so sweet. They had nothing like that in Amon Ereb. Rather, they had nothing like that even before, when the fortress of Himring still stood proud and untouched on the hill.

Knowing his counselor would be so intuitive, Elrond let out a faint sigh and leaned back in his chair, lazily swirling the wine in his glass: «I heard you and Lindir discuss, early in the morning», he disclosed, frowning. «I was wondering if something happened».

Erestor stopped mid bite; he didn’t think about Elrond, when he brought Lindir in the garden. On hindsight, he should have considered it.   
Taking a deep breath, he the Noldo put down his food and rubbed a hand on his face: «I apologize if we caused you trouble, but there is no need to be worried», he said, hoping to ease some of the half-elf concern. «If anything, the discussion was entirely my fault. All is well, now».   
At least, so it seemed.   
Elrond, however, didn’t look very convinced, so his counselor gave a shrug and lost his façade for a moment: «I figured it was about time he knew of my past. I really thought I fucked up for a second».   
Straight to the point. Elrond had gotten used to his frankness long before, after all.   
The fact that he automatically reverted to his beloved Quenya was but another proof of him dropping the title of counselor for that conversation.   
Tinged with just a hint of bitterness, Erestor snorted a brief laugh: «I really have no idea anymore of how to break bad news to people. I have to thank Eru that he was gentle enough not to hit me, a reaction I would have expected».

Instead, he kept Erestor with his feet on the ground. He screamed for a bit, totally justified, but at the end of it all he was the reason why nothing crumbled, upon unveiling the truth. That much he told Elrond, and the lord seemed satisfied enough with that answer.   
As a natural consequence to the end of that conversation, Erestor stepped back in his adviser exterior. Just in time for Lindir to come back, and scold them for not eating their breakfast.   
If Elrond wanted to ask something more, he did not. Instead, he listened to his steward’s criticism and sank his teeth into a honey bun.

After breakfast, with Elrond away in his rooms and Lindir busy with more paperwork that was probably needed, Erestor headed straight for the library.   
With the rest of the day being somewhat uneventful, with no news coming from either Glorfindel or the twins, he simply focused on the lore book he was reading, and only emerged for lunch and dinner.   
A routine he kept for three more days, before getting rudely interrupted during his reading.

«Erestor, sir!», a courier all but screamed, barging into the library. He was trailing mud all over the floor, and the counselor was going to have him clean everything, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.

Alarmed, Erestor walked around a tall shelf and eyed the courier, unkempt in appearance and restless in spirit: «What is the matter? Speak quickly», he ordered.

«Orcs, nearing Imladris», the courier hurried to say. «Too many for out scouts to kill».

Erestor clenched his fists, the issue hitting him like a punch in the guts. Imladris had been safe from such attacks for centuries, why was Sauron targeting them, now? Was it even Sauron? He pressed the courier to say something else, something that could help him understand what the nature of the attack was, with no results other than learning the orcs were probably going to reach them by night.   
No matter.  
He sent the courier away, delaying his reprimand towards the state he left the library in, and rushed to Elrond’s study without thinking too much about it.

His door was closed, but Erestor didn’t bother to knock, instead slamming it open and startling a peaceful Elrond at his desk: «Orcs are coming», he said, stoic. «We are going to be attacked once night falls».

The lord of Imladris needed a second to register what his counselor had told him. Then, as realization dawned on him, he jumped to his feet, a shiver running down his back; Imladris was supposed to be a safe place, a home where to find peace far from the war, why was it being attacked?  
He asked it to Erestor, but he knew just as much, which was nothing. Pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, he sat back down, then shot a glance at the Noldo: «Whatever is the reason for this sudden assault, we need to defend Imladris», he said.   
He knew Erestor was going to honor his word, so he vaguely gestured towards the door: «You know where the armory is. I will see to our warriors, and to arm myself».

There weren’t many, in his homely land, just enough to defend. He wouldn’t need long to summon them all. If they had only until night, every single sword was important.   
However, as he stood up again and he saw Erestor shake his head, Elrond frowned: «What is the problem, now?».

«You will not fight».   
His voice was austere, eyes hard as stone, as he forced Elrond to recoil with the mere strength of his gaze, not unlike his younger self. The child grew up, but one war was enough. One loss was enough.   
Erestor still regretted the day he wasn’t able to help Celebrían, for his grown-up kid suffered greatly from that. Still winced at the memory of having permitted Elrond to fight, in the now old Last Alliance between Elves and Men. He still didn’t forgive himself for not stopping the peredhel when he set out towards Dol Guldur.  
The promise he had made to Maedhros, although no Oath, urged him to finally act. And act he did.   
«You will stay here, away from the battle, until I tell you otherwise», Erestor spoke again, cold as ice, as the order rolled easily on his competent tongue.

It had been so long, since the last time he properly fell back into his true self. Not even Lindir, who got a taste of what his temper was really like, knew the full extent of his long-lost personality.   
Elrond, by the looks of it, never forgot.   
Slowly, the lord of Imladris sat back down, looking like he was being scolded like a child, but didn’t object. He knew better, than to talk back to Erestor when he was in the right.   
Erestor looked at him, making sure he was actually going to listen and not sneak away, a habit he never let go, and relaxed his expression: «I will also not wear the armor of your land», he told him, still with a sober seriousness in his voice.

Elrond didn’t take it personally.   
Instead, he gave him a dubious look: «Are you sure you want to wear _that_?».

«It is a honor for me to fight for you», was the reply. «But in battle I will wear no other livery than the one of my Lord. Even if it means I will fight alone».  
It wasn’t a simple thought of the moment. Since the day he accepted to take the reins of Imladris’ warriors in lieu of Glorfindel, he knew what armor he would wear. What coat of arms he would have on his armor. He couldn’t, wouldn’t fight a battle under a different banner, no matter who the lord of the land was.   
He hoped Elrond could understand.

And understand Elrond did, with a nod, and an encouraging light in his eyes: «You will not be alone. Go wear your armor, and take your sword in hand. I will see you with all my lieutenants ready», he declared.

Erestor could only give him a bitter smile, before turning around: «Maybe. But not all of them will follow a fëanorian».   
Before he could leave, a hand placed itself on his shoulder, and the Noldo looked at the peredhel. He had his mischievous expression again, one that brought nothing but trouble.

He grinned: «They followed me. They _will_ follow you».   
That said, he squeezed his counselor’s shoulder and let him go, setting off on his own mission. But before running in search of his warriors, he made sure to send Lindir where he was needed.   
And where he was needed was with Erestor. 

His old armor shone with mithril and steel, stained in gold, proud on its stand. It was a masterpiece of Noldor craftsmanship, still in one piece after so many centuries, forged in the depths of Valinor and worn over and over to fight for the Jewels. Numerous times he had to hand it to the smiths to have it fixed, memorable the time Curufin himself took it in the forge of Amon Ereb, just to have something to keep his mind occupied, but it was still perfect.   
Not worn for years and years, yet not a single flaw or speck of age. He knew Elrond was the reason why that armor still lived so brightly, as he hid it away in the deepest forge of his land, only to be handled by those last Noldorin smiths that followed him from the Lonely Hill.   
It wasn’t the only one, but it was the best.   
When Erestor asked the smiths why so much care was reserved for his armor, and not the same for the ones of Maglor’s soldiers, he simply told him that he was their captain. Enough for the Noldo to feel touched.   
Though, he also asked them to restore the other armors as well, if possible.

Now, looking at his armor and thinking about whether or not involving those soldiers, he was glad for having asked that.

Before he could reach the mithril chainmail placed beside it, however, more delicate hands entered his field of vision, grabbing it for him. Startled, Erestor turned to see Lindir beside him, shocked he didn’t hear him approaching; maybe he was more worried than he believed it himself.   
«You should not be here», he told him, reaching to grab the chainmail from his hands, but Lindir pulled away, a faint smile curving his lips. «This is no chore of yours».  
Dressing him for battle was not something he foresaw Lindir doing. As strong as his lover was, Erestor only wanted him to stay safe, far from any semblance of war. The look in his eyes, in spite of that, was only resolute.

Maybe accepting his defeat, Erestor sighed and raised his arms, allowing Lindir to slip the mithril chainmail on his body; careful, he draped it perfectly over his form, eyeing the shimmering of silvery metal as sunlight filtered through half-open curtains. It was beautiful undoubtedly the work of some smith of old, maybe a gift of the forges of Valinor.   
Lindir smoothed his hands over it, feeling its coldness under trembling fingers; so few days had passed, since Erestor got that bloody truth off his chest, and already the warrior was back. What a cruel twist of destiny, the steward thought.

Conscious of his indecisiveness, Erestor grabbed placed a hand under Lindir’s chin and lifted it, as to look in his eyes: «You do not have to do this», he said, the other hand grabbing his wrist to pull it away from the chainmail.

Lindir fought the gesture: «I _want_ to do it», was the vehement reply, so much that Erestor let him go with a surprised gasp. «Let me do this for you».   
Slowly, carefully, he saw Erestor nodding, than moving his gaze to the armor still waiting on its stand. Lindir had never dressed a soldier, neither he ever touched something as ancient as the metal he was how reaching for; he would learn quickly.

Following Erestor’s suggestions, and with almost reverence marking his every move, he started taking pieces off the stand to put them on the warrior.   
It was different from the more – somewhat – delicate armors used in Imladris, coiling around the body almost like a second skin; it was heavier, but still with the lightness of mithril mixed with steel, and bulkier. Plate armor, if he had to describe it, only a bit more slender and refined than those crafted by Men, with more parts welded together as to decorate it. Composite, maybe, although he was not sure if that was the right word for it.   
Its golden color was merely painted, maybe stained, but he was not knowledgeable enough to understand.   
On the center of the breastplate, carved and filled with pure gold, the fëanorian star shone it all its glory. It was, by all means, forged for a high-ranking warrior.   
Even the pauldrons were of great beauty, hugged by a pair of wings on each side. It was a craft, that of the Noldor, rarely equaled in that Age.

If Lindir wasn’t sure about whether or not to believe what he listened from Erestor, upon seeing that armor he had no more doubts.

Carefully, he took the cuirass off the stand and put it on Erestor, aided by his words; the armor fit perfectly on the warrior’s body, obviously tailored for him and not simply something generic, and Lindir took particular care in buckling the sides together. As he handled it, he noticed how the left side of the breastplate was thicker than the right, as well as how the backside was thinner than the front. Easy to understand why, as thicker armor above the heart gave a better chance of survival.   
He was mesmerized by it.

Remembering how, in the past, a servant would do that job for him, Erestor sighed. It had been so long, so many years, millennia he could say. He knew how to wear it by himself, but before a great battle it was always someone else, trusted and skilled.   
The way Lindir moved around, a bit unsure, helped Erestor not to go back more than it was necessary. Even if he liked the feeling of a sword in his hands and of an armor on his body, he wasn’t spared of the great deal of trauma the war scarred him with.   
But that was no War of the Jewels, and Erestor _longed_ to spring back in action.

«For too long I have kept the sword in its sheath», he said, almost whispering, looking outside through the small sliver of space between heavy curtains. «My hands thrill for battle».  
As he spoke, he also gestured towards the next piece of armor to wear, and shook his head: «How could I think to be a counselor? I am a warrior, not a scribe».

Lindir fastened the greaves on Erestor’s legs, marveling at the beauty of the gold decorations lining the edges, but refused to reply. Rather, he had no accurate words to speak, so he merely checked if the pieces were not too tight before standing back up to grab the cuisses, that he placed on his thighs.   
He could understand, now that he saw that armor with his own eyes, why the soldiers of the Noldor were so difficult to kill, and so strong in battle. Those were armors made to resist, to protect as much as possible, to stand the test of terrible weapons; those worn by the elves of the forest were lighter, made to allow the wearer to climb trees, move around with much more freedom.   
The one he was putting, piece by piece, on his lover’s figure was made for the open battlefield, to fight on the ground and on horseback, not to scurry around between trees and plants.

Next came the rerebraces, which found its place on Erestor’s upper arm, and the vambraces, as shiny as the rest of it. Those bore the star of Fëanor as well, though simply carved in the metal and not emphasized with gold. He cared to add the coutens as well, and then moved to the pauldrons, pieces that piqued his interest even more.   
They would have looked simple, hadn’t it been for the feathery wings of metal that wrapped around their edges, and for the gold lining every single feather. They were heavy, but Lindir was not as feeble as many elves of Imladris were driven to think; he made sure they fit how they needed, and then stepped back to admire his work.

He still needed to add the last pieces, but he stopped in his tracks when the reality of what he was seeing struck him. The warrior in front of him was Erestor.   
Erestor, the Noldo he never believed able to even lift a sword to harm anybody, the elf he fell in love with ages before, with a quill in one hand and a book in the other. Looking at him now, in full armor, he seemed a totally different person.   
What really froze him in place was the light of his eyes, not simply stern and serious anymore, but with a flicker of danger dancing in those grey irises, fierce, his spirit ablaze. Lindir believed he fell in love all over again.

Swallowing dry, he only allowed himself a couple seconds of that distraction, before removing the gorget from the stand and placing it around Erestor’s neck, so close to him that he could feel warm breath on his skin.   
Then, came the last bit of his armor. The gauntlets, which clicked their battle melody as he maneuvered them on Erestor’s hands.   
With that, he was done.   
And as soon as he lifted his hands, one of Erestor came to his chin and tilted it upwards, to steal a kiss deeper and thirstier than the ones he was used to. The cold of metal of his skin stirred up his emotion more than the taste of his lover, and Lindir soon fell for the warrior, just as hard as he fell for the counselor.

When he let Lindir go, his breath was heavier, and his eyes gleaming with unspoken desire. Erestor almost wanted to step out of his armor and claim him exactly where he was, latch his lips on that beautiful neck, caress him all over until he trembled with the throes of love shaking his core.   
But he couldn’t.   
He had soldiers to lead, and a battle to fight. He had black blood to shed, and was more than eager to sink his sword in orc flesh.   
With that in mind, Erestor lightened his touch and simply stroke Lindir’s cheek: «Go, now. I do not want you to see the captain», he told him, but a mere whisper on a bittersweet smile.

In response, Lindir splayed his hands over the chestplate and shook his head: «What you desire is not always achieved», he replied, feeling beneath his fingers every ridge of the armor, every rivet and embossment.  
Erestor pressed their foreheads together, sighing, but the younger elf simply smiled: «I have chosen the elf I want to share my heart with. Allow me to know him more than I do now».

At that, Erestor could only nod.


	2. Chapter 2

In the main plaza of Imladris, bathed by warm rays of sun, things weren’t good. Elrond was standing in the middle of it, exchanging occasional glances with one particular elf, motionless and silent behind the line of warriors; he was holding a banner, one that Elrond cherished and protected for years, and stood so still no one spared him a glance.   
All around the peredhel, tense and restless, his lieutenants waited for him to tell them who was to guide Imladris in battle. As far as Elrond told them, they were aware the orcs coming their way were more than any other wandering group that had dared to attack Imladris. And more orcs meant more trouble.   
Finally, broken by the heavy silence, Meorof let his voice out and asked Elrond who was the elf they were waiting for.

The question, even though Elrond expected it, stilled in the air for a while. He didn’t know how to break it to them.   
Beside all his lieutenant, after all, there were many other elves of Imladris, simple townsfolk or attendants; they seemed scared, sparks of fear igniting in their gazes every once in a while, and he had no idea how they were going to react.   
Erestor was – despite his best efforts to appear somewhat unlikable – loved by the folk of Imladris. His diligent behavior and calm attitude, although they scared some people off, made others respect him enormously. And for them to see him in full fëanorian attire, regardless of Elrond’s own fondness of that House… it could spell disaster.

But the role of captain was taken, and Erestor was with them to protect that homely land.   
Elrond took a deep breath, let his gaze wander on all his audience, and locked eyes with his first lieutenant: «You will follow Erestor’s orders», he declared, maybe more solemn than he wanted to be. «He is the one that will guide you».

Upon hearing the name of Imladris’ counselor, a low murmuring spread throughout the elves. Meorof himself, after sparing a glance for his brother, frowned at Elrond: «My lord, forgive my words, but are you seriously considering this?».  
He didn’t want to sound disrespectful, far from it, but he couldn’t understand why that choice. Never, in all his life, Meorof had seen Erestor even _touch_ a sword. Lindir, younger and battle-shy as he was, probably handled more weapons than him!

Elrond was expecting that counter. He raised an eyebrow: «I am not _considering_ this. I have _decided_ this, since Glorfindel left», was the answer. Not harsh, not too gentle either. He learned how to dance in the middle ground thanks to Maglor’s unending lessons.

Since the day Glorfindel left? But that was almost a week before!  
Meorof wasn’t the only one in disbelief, as his fellow lieutenants were disoriented much like him, and tried again: «Are you sure you will not fight?».

«I better hope he does not».

Erestor’s voice came like a storm, a lightning strike in the middle of a cloudless morrow. Jarring, unrelenting, the opposite of that sharp honey he oozed on normal days. Meorof could not see him yet, but a shiver ran down his spine upon hearing that tone.   
He never heard that voice speak like that.   
And when Erestor came into his field of view, going down steep stairs clad in glistening armor, he took a step back, terrified.   
The same did everyone else in the plaza, the hands of some warriors flying to grab sword handles and spears; only Elrond, seemingly surrounded by a peaceful aura, kept still in his place.

The counselor stopped just shy of sword reach, and Meorof desperately wished to be anywhere but there. The elf in front of him had nothing of the counselor he knew and admired, if not his general anatomy: black hair, as black as night, were braided with red and gold highlighting them; his grey eyes, ordinarily pensive, were lit by a fire that rivaled only that of Glorfindel, his expression spine-chilling. He was tall, but as the dwellers of Imladris quivered before him he seemed even taller, towering above them with innate authority.   
When Meorof finally took notice of the emblem chiseled on his chest, the air got punched out of his lungs as if someone just struck him.

Everyone gasped in recognition, as the shock of Erestor’s appearance subsided, and Meorof took another step back, eyeing the sword hanging from the Noldo’s side. Clearly of Noldorin manufacture, sleek but lethal.  
He didn’t know how skilled Erestor was with it. he also didn’t know if he wanted to discover it.

Lost, the lieutenant shot an alarmed look at his lord, but Elrond was _smiling._

With a gentle shake of his head, Elrond looked at the warrior standing before him, memories flooding him like water from a broken dam: «I know better than to disobey an order of safety», he said, an old glint of mischief in his eyes. «You would go as far as scold me for being reckless on my deathbed».   
The armor still fit him live a glove. Another nail in the wall of remembrance.   
The last time Elrond had seen Erestor wear that armor was before Gil-galad; that day he had been on his knees, begging for the twins to be treated fairly, and for his people not to be lynched. Not a pleasant memory, even knowing how Gil-galad wasn’t exactly opposed to have fëanorians in his lands.

At that, Erestor grinned: «Nelyafinwë would leave the Halls of Mandos just to kill me himself if something happened to you. I would get to scold you, but then you would have to endure my presence in the Halls beside you».

Before Elrond could reply, Lindir joined them; in his arms, shimmering under sunlight, he was holding Erestor’s beautiful helmet, from where a blood red crest flowed in the slight breeze.   
The appearance of his steward seemed to break the spell, and suddenly there were people talking and arguing surrounding him. All the warriors still kept their distance, visibly shocked, but as soon as Elrond tried to open his mouth to make silence fall, Erestor’s voice boomed thunderous.

«Be silent, you uproarious party!».   
His tremendous tone stunned them all into silence, and Erestor glowered: «Warriors of Imladris, you call yourselves, but to me you seem nothing more than a cluster of unqualified whippersnappers». Lindir tensed up beside him, but Erestor paid him no heed. His scowl was for the soldiers, not for his lover.   
He heard Elrond snorting a laugh through his nose, incapable of keeping it in, but everyone else looked positively petrified.   
The captain let out a huff, still with an unkind note in his words, and looked at every one of the lieutenants before speaking again: «If you want to protect the land of your lord, then you will listen to what I tell you, and you _will_ follow».

Slowly but surely, his old confidence came back to its peak, and Erestor straightened his back even more: «You think you know how to fend off an assault as big as this? Think again. This is no fortress, no walls will protect you, in Imladris. You know how to ride in battle, and how to face smaller groups of those disgusting thralls of the Enemy, but this is not your usual fights. And if you want to ignore me, go out there with no preparation, and die speared on dozens of orc blades because you do _not_ know how to deal with an army, I will not stop you. But I will leave you bloody and beaten in the dust, and to die will be your doom», he announced, his fëa increasingly overjoyed.   
He could see the blood drain from the faces of his listeners, and scoffed; if they got scared by something so trivial, Imladris wasn’t going to survive an onslaught.

«Who are you?».  
Disbelieving, Meorof recovered from his stupor, and stared at Erestor: «What in the name of the Valar is happening?!».

«What is happening? You will die before morrow, if you keep trembling like children before a grumbling wolf», Erestor bluntly replied, holding Meorof’s gaze as if it was as light as a feather. «As for me, you do not need to trouble with such matters before a battle. Now, _start acting like soldiers_!», he cried, so loudly that Lindir flinched.   
As if struck by a spell, but a spell of sudden consciousness, the lieutenants of Imladris stopped acting like fearful dogs and snapped to attention; Erestor’s voice was powerful, and he knew that well, and their fëar were weaker that those of his old soldiers.   
He could see Elrond recognizing that attitude, but chose to ignore him; he could get angry at how he treated his warriors after their victory. Even though, Erestor thought, the probability of the peredhel being angry at his methods was near zero. Maedhros and Maglor were even rougher.

«First and Second lieutenant, you will equip your soldiers with shields and spears, and form a line of defense at the entrances of Imladris. Sub-lieutenants, two of you will lead your soldiers out to slow down the incoming orcs and lighten the load for those who stay. The other two will spread out their forces and funnel the orcs that manage to enter Imladris in the narrowest streets of this place, to make them easier to kill and make it more difficult for them to cut your throats. I want all of the archers in the spots with higher visibility and range of action, and they will not move unless forced to do so, only attack from a distance».   
After his orders, when no one moved or dared to speak, Erestor scowled again: «Do I have to repeat myself?», he exclaimed again.

The listeners came back to themselves with a start, and Meorof nodded, though he was drenched in cold sweat: «No need, sir. You heard him? Take your positions!».

With that, still shaken, all the warriors left the plaza, someone running quicker than others. Before leaving, Meorof shared a worried glance with his brother, silently promised him he was to survive, and disappeared up the stairs.

«You need to teach your soldiers to listen», Erestor complained to Elrond, his tone finally softening. «But I have to admit, you were right. They seem to be following me».

Well knowing how demanding Erestor was when it came to obedience, Elrond took the criticisms without offense. In fact, they were lucky Erestor simply shouted at them. The half-elf still remembered the day when he stumbled upon a group of Maedhros’ soldiers slacking around instead of doing their job; when Erestor found them, his eyes were as black as the void, and his voice sharper than a well-honed sword. He didn’t shout, merely disciplined them with words, but Elrond never forgot the terror he felt during that day.   
Everything, from his stance to his voice to the light in his eyes told: _dangerous_.   
Those soldiers were gone even before Elrond had time to blink.

Gesturing towards the elf that was hidden in the shadows behind them – Erestor immediately recognized him as one of the caretakers of Amon Ereb by his expression – Elrond took the banner and handed it to his counselor: «I know you prepared your warriors as well. If you want to take it, this is not only mine», he told him, watching as Erestor’s eyes lit up.   
The banner was black, lined with deep red, and a gold fëanorian star stood proudly in the middle of it; it was one of the same banners that used to hang outside the Lonely Hill, cared for and constantly restored and mended when needed. Not perfect, but both Elrond and Erestor knew how precious it was for them.

Erestor accepted it, and then took his helmet from Lindir’s hands: «I want you away from the battle», he said, fitting that last piece of armor under his arm for the moment. «Both of you».   
Lindir tried to protest, but the Noldo shot him a sideways glance: «My love, you are quite literally shaking», he noticed, even though the trembling of his fingers and lips was almost unnoticeable. «I know you want to stay, but you are overwhelmed».

Despite himself, Lindir had to nod and admit his lover was right. He wanted to stay, to love him without any difference, but seeing him like that, _hearing_ him talking like that, with such animosity… maybe it was really too much to handle.   
Lindir was no child, but he also saw no war. He even never left Imladris once, always living safe behind its walls and waterfalls, only helped his lord or his sons when they came back from a hunt.   
Too see his beloved so riled up and eager to bathe in blood it was too much.   
«I will see you once the orcs are dead», he however said, looking him straight in the eye. «So please, avoid getting killed. I would like to get my lover back in one piece _and_ alive».

He saw a fair share of scars littering Erestor’s body, during their lovemaking; now that he knew from where those scars came from, Lindir was even more worried. But he had to be a formidable warrior, if he ended up becoming Maedhros’ first captain and kept the title. A small hope to attach himself to.

«Make sure that no one leaves their house until I deem safe to do so. And please, take away this crowd. I am quite tired of them staring at me».   
The last addition made said crowd squirm, but he avoided looking at them. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of even more scared elves to ruin his plans. Sharing a brief kiss with Lindir, he spared a glance for Elrond and left, heading towards the main entrance to Imladris.  
It was the weakest point of the town, and it needed all the reinforcements it could have. Erestor only hoped Meorof’s soldiers would refrain from stabbing his own.

Choking on the water he was trying to drink, Laegil barely managed to keep himself decent, and looked at Meorof with wide eyes: «What do you mean “Erestor is a fëanorian?!”».

Meorof tapped his spear on the ground, nervous: «Exactly what I said. Erestor, our lord’s counselor, is a _fucking_ follower of the sons of Fëanor». Not that he wanted to sound so bitter, but he certainly didn’t need that revelation. He swore again, startling a younger soldier passing behind him, and took a deep breath to calm down.   
On one hand, if Erestor was dangerous, Elrond would have never permitted him to stay, much less he would have gifted him such privileges. On the other hand, Elrond was a fëanorian as well. A proper fëanorian, not just a follower, someone raised by two sons of Fëanor. Probably, Erestor had played a big role in his childhood, given the situation.   
Worried, Meorof had no idea what to think. He was faithful to his lord, and his lord ordered them to follow Erestor’s guidance, but he heard the stories.

One question, nagging him from the recesses of his mind, refused to die down.   
Was Erestor a kinslayer? Did he raise the sword to arm his kin?   
The only answer he could muster was a terrible yes.

Him talking about _Nelyafinwë_ like that, not even calling him Maedhros, woke the seed of doubt in Meorof’s mind. A seed that bloomed in acknowledgment when Erestor spoke to the soldier if Imladris with a voice capable of moving a mountain.   
The armor he was wearing, far too elaborate to belong to a simple soldier, the straightforward orders, that dangerous aura surrounding him… Erestor was no mere warrior. Probably holder of some high rank, though very few survived to know about it.

«What are we going to do?», Laegil asked, observing the tense behavior of his friend and superior. «Follow his orders? You said that he was appointed as captain by Elrond, surely our lord knows what he is doing».

Meorof could only hope.   
But he nodded, stiffening as he noticed Erestor approaching: «We have no other choice».

The sunlight made shields and spears shine golden, but Erestor had only eyes for the wary expression on the First lieutenant face, his tension visibly close to overload him; all the soldiers tensed up as the captain got closer, some of them desperately trying too hard to hide the fact they were scared.   
Excellent warriors, Erestor knew that, but too easily influenced.   
With a sigh, half-annoyed half-disappointed, he gestured for Meorof to come closer and crossed his arms, raising a single eyebrow: «Do you have your soldiers settled? This is not going to be a walk in the gardens, they need to stay focused».   
His tone made Meorof wince, but he was a lieutenant; learning how to respect his superiors should have been crucial before handing out that title to him.   
Not receiving any answer, Erestor rolled his eyes and grabbed him by the wrist, almost yanking him forward: «Stop thinking about my accursed past for one fucking second and concentrate on the battle!», he called him out, immediately recognizing what was distracting the elf. «Imladris will soon be attacked by more orcs than you have ever fought at once, what do you care more about? Me, or your home?».

Fear washed over him as Erestor shook him like a doll, but he knew the answer. He knew what he cared more about.   
«My home, of course!», Meorof almost shrieked, trying to wrench his arm away from the Noldo’s iron grip. To his surprise, Erestor let go without offering resistance, and he almost fell backwards, saving himself at the last moment. He was expecting to be hit, not to be released. The stone features of Erestor’s face told a different story than his nimble hands.   
Maybe he was overthinking it.

Trying to calm down, he gestured towards his soldiers that he was alright and breathed deeply. Erestor wasn’t going to kill him, he had to convince himself of it. If he wanted to have all of Imladris slain, he would have sliced their throats ages before. They were all still alive, and he never presented himself as an enemy.

Seeing Meorof finally starting to think with his head and not his emotions, the Noldo observed how his soldiers were preparing for the oncoming onslaught; they weren’t experienced in that kind of defense, and it showed, but orcs were slow-witted enough that a simple testudo would slow them down considerably.   
Those were warriors used to fight in open fields and on horseback, mainly against small groups of foes.  
He made his decision.   
«Listen to me», Erestor snatched his attention, snapping his fingers. «You and me will take position in the central plaza of Imladris, with a small reinforcement. If some orcs manage to get through, from here that is the first open space they will run to. We will try to kill as many as we can, while the soldiers in the streets take care of the rest».   
A last minute decision, but seeing how vulnerable the main entrance looked it was very much needed.

«Are you suggesting we take soldiers away from here? They will not be enough to stop any wave of orcs, Erestor. They will _die_ ».

Erestor shot him a petrifying glance, restraining the urge to scold him again, and he closed his mouth. Then, the Noldo vaguely gestured behind himself: «They will not die, if they have _my_ reinforcements. But if your soldiers do not trust mine… I am afraid there is not much more I can do».   
There, dropped it.   
Meorof looked at him in confusion, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, until realization struck him. At that point, an array of emotions flowed on his face; horror, doubt, resignation, and lastly, understanding. The knuckles of the hand gripping his spear went white, but he nodded.   
«If this can ease your uncertainty, none of them ever took part in a Kinslaying».   
The elf frowned, still wide-eyed in perplexity, and Erestor huffed out a soft laugh: «They were part of the guard of Amon Ereb, under Makalaurë’s command. Their task was to defend, though they remain skilled in the art of the sword. I can have them come here and help you hold back the orcs, but you _need_ to trust them. You all need to trust them».

At first, Erestor didn’t even want to have them fight. They weren’t his warriors, as he fought under Maedhros rather than Maglor, but it was those Noldor themselves that came up to him, demanding the captain to guide them in battle.   
Armors polished and weapons ready, Erestor could not deny that more help was only useful. And so, after three ages, he finally took the reins of the last warriors of Maglor.

The guard of Amon Ereb. Maglor’s warriors.   
In Imladris, in that land of peace, there were even more followers of the sons of Fëanor.   
Not that surprising, at the end of the day. By that point, Meorof could not be easily shocked anymore. Foolish of him, was to think that his lord would have not brought them with him to the last homely land, for Elrond never hid his love for the fëanorians.   
Sudden, a jolt of determination surged through his body, and the lieutenant straightened his back, eyes hardened by the expectancy of battle. He would make his lord proud. He would not disappoint Elrond. And, even more important, he would not disappoint Erestor.   
Meorof was many things, but not brainless.

The lingering question he longed to ask was put aside from the time being. He would deal with his poor curiosity only after driving away or killing their enemies.   
«We will fight side by side with no ill-feelings», he assured the Noldo, a renewed vigor in his body. «Let our soldiers be united for us to stand, or else we will fall».

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erestor calling them whippersnappers (which is a informal expression, as far as I know) is totally intentional on his part. And hilarious on mine. 
> 
> Laegil: laeg “keen, sharp” + megil “sword”. One of Meorof’s soldiers and a close friend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no idea if I nailed or failed my attempt at Early Modern English (that I luckily only used once) that you'll see in here. If I failed (probably), please just have a good old laugh. I already had troubles when trying to read an entire goddamn book in… vulgar Italian? Vernacular? Guys, there are some things I don’t know in this language, I’m sorry. I only read the Silmarillion in English once. 
> 
> At the end there are a couple notes I forgot to add in the previous chapter.

Filtering through drawn curtains, the last bits of sunlight washed over his desk, dancing as hazy clouds passed over Anor. Elrond’s hands could not sit still, now gripping a quill, now fidgeting with parchment; a gloomy atmosphere seemed to have engulfed his beautiful land, orcs nearing it by the hour.   
He wanted to fight, wanted to feel the weight of his sword, pass it from right to left hand as both Maedhros and Erestor taught him, but he couldn’t risk his life now.   
Couldn’t risk breaking his word.   
He wasn’t as strong as he could be, and Elrond knew that; with his sons fighting so far from him, and his daughter ready to give up her immortality, he felt tired, grief-stricken and worried. He wished for nothing but the happiness of his family, yet knowing he would lose part of it, and not knowing if the other half would survive was taking a toll on his fëa.   
If he fought now… Elrond didn’t know if he was to emerge alive and victorious.

Not only that, he had taken onto his shoulder to see that Lindir was fine. The steward was sitting not far from him, on the small couch of his office, eyes gazing into nothingness. He seemed to have aged thousands of years in the span of few days, worry creasing his forehead and hands gripping themselves tightly.   
What could he say to him, to ease his mind? Elrond was a healer, but that was unexplored territory for him.

He knew what a bleeding heart felt like, for Celebrían was still an open wound in his chest – though safe and sound on those beautiful western shores – but had no experience with life-changing revelations. They had never been comfortingly lied to, Elrond and Elros, for the sons of Fëanor never hid from them what tragedy they brought upon their family; neither his beautiful lover suffered from a hidden past, because Elrond never hid from her his fëanorian pride.   
Anything else – the followers of Maedhros and Maglor dwelling in Imladris, Erestor being a fierce warrior rather than a calm librarian – it wasn’t life-changing for them. For Celebrían, for his sons, for his people.   
But for Lindir it was.

Wishing to have inherited some of his _atya_ ’s mastery with words, Elrond let out a sigh and threw a side glance to Lindir. Then, he got up and reached for the cabinet, grabbing a bottle of wine and two cups. The wine was strong, though not as much as the one they had when Amon Ereb was still bustling with life, and for a moment Elrond craved to have that bizarre… spirit, they had called it, that some of Maedhros’ elves had experimentally brewed.   
He tasted it once. The burn of it in his mouth and throat had been enough to discourage any further tasting.   
Silently, he poured some wine in both cups and brought one to Lindir, who accepted it without lifting his gaze. Forcing the younger elf to talk wouldn’t have been useful, if anything it could be detrimental, so Elrond simply waited as he sipped his wine.

Swirling around in his head, now accompanied by the taste of piquant spiced wine, dozens of thoughts danced and screamed. It was one thing to be told of a past riddled with war, another to see that past engulf his beloved like it never left.   
Those few days he had to get used to the idea, between Erestor telling him the truth about his life and the oncoming orc attack, hadn’t been enough, and Lindir was only now realizing it. As he dressed Erestor for battle, he could only think about how fierce and strong he presented himself. As he slept with him, no love made, he could pretend nothing had changed.   
Lindir told Erestor that he still loved him, that nothing between them would change lest both their hearts suffer, but it finally dawned on him.   
Erestor was a fëanorian. Erestor was a kinslayer. Erestor was not the person he believed him to be.  
He fought the War of the Jewels, pursued the Silmarilli in his loyalty to Fëanor’s sons, spilled endless blood.

Whimpering softly, unable to stop the flow of his emotions, he dropped his head even more: «Why is this happening?», he sniffled, hearing the drip of a tear landing in his wine.

Elrond all but rushed to his side, his wine forgotten, but refrained from reaching to touch him. Lindir was overwhelmed, and his shoulders started shaking, sobs making their way out from his chest. Stunned, the peredhel watched as his faithful steward, an elf that could face any difficulty with tough resolution, cried his heartache.   
Tears made their way on his cheeks, staining them with salt, his fingers gripping the cup so tightly he could see them turning white.

Careful, Elrond took the cup from his hands and set it aside, tentatively stroking his back; he knew how much Lindir loathed that kind of contact, because he respected too much the distance between lord and attendant, but for once he accepted it.

Weeping, Lindir leaned on Elrond’s shoulder and let the half-elf snake one arm behind his back, soothe his spirit with a gentle half hug. It was wrong, and he knew it, but what could he do? He hated feeling so weak and helpless.   
Shaking his head, more tears falling from already red eyes, he had nothing to do but welcome that comfort.   
«How can I love him?», he asked, not knowing if to Elrond or himself, words drowned in his sobs. «How can he love me?».

He was but a fool, believing that an old warrior would keep their love stoked and ablaze. He had nothing to give Erestor, only his youth, while he was burdened with the weight of countless souls.   
Lindir didn’t care about the Kinslayings, the blood-shed, the title he bore, but at the same time… at the same time, knowing it created a rift between them. He was nothing, compared to him. Not a warrior, not filled with strength in both fëa and hröa, not able to even withstand that awareness. He was but a crying mess, undeserving of the blazing love of a Noldo of old.   
And it hurt him, so much that his heart wanted to shatter, to love so much and be loved in return, only to be a fraction of what Erestor truly deserved.

Not knowing what to say, however shocked upon hearing his cries, Elrond kept him company and whispered soothing nothings to him. Sunlight was fading as Anor set, and only when the twinkling of stars fell in the room Lindir stopped crying.   
Night had fallen, and a battle was raging outside, but its sound didn’t reach them.

Elrond, determined to clear Lindir’s mind, settled on what he wanted to tell him.

«Do you want me to tell you how you can love him?». Lindir stiffened a bit as Elrond spoke, but didn’t reply. Taking it as a hint to continue, the peredhel moved his gaze toward the window: «You can love him by being yourself. By giving him nothing more than what you gave him until now. You can love him by not believing you are not enough».   
Lindir kept silent, but the lord of Imladris refused to give up. He didn’t know if he wanted to try for Erestor, whom he loved like family, or for Lindir himself, whom he considered a friend.

True to his blood and spirit, Erestor never loved anyone before Lindir. Love was a difficult feeling, for those who bore the name of Eldar, rarely coming more than one single time. It was so intense, burned their spirits so brightly, that making love was akin to be wedded. Or so many thoughts.   
Elrond himself believed those stories, told to the youth until they were grown enough to understand.   
The lovemaking of marriage was different that the lovemaking of partners. Without willingness to bind their fëar together, without requited desire to wed, such an union wouldn’t happen.   
But Elrond, despite his young age, was taught by Maedhros and Maglor the difference between marital love, lovemaking, and sex.   
And never, in all the years he spent with Erestor, the peredhel had seen him search more than pure, unadulterated sex in his life. And even then, it was more out of frustration than genuine desire.

But with Lindir, although embarrassing to notice, Elrond saw how comfortable he was, how loving he was. He hugged him with gentleness, instead of being harsh and demanding even in that kind of affection. He kissed him with love, with care, with a tenderness Elrond never saw on his face in the past.   
The hint of desperate urge Elrond had seen once in his eyes, a long forgotten day in which he had accidentally stumbled upon Erestor aggressively coupling with one of Maglor’s guards, was nowhere to be seen in the beautiful endearment so vivid in his expression when he had Lindir close.   
The war and the Oath brought to the surface the worst of everyone, not just of those who were bound to the Silmarilli. The peace of Imladris and the loss of Beleriand – more than their pyrrhic victory – aided them to outlive both anger and bellicosity.

That much, sparing him nothing, he told to Lindir.   
«Do not ask yourself how he can love you. He loves you because you are his peace, his beloved, his new present. He loves you because he does not see in your eyes the looming shadow of war, because you can sit by his side and simply be yourself, without hiding the never-ending pain that he and his old lovers forced themselves to bury».   
Elrond curved his lips in a smile, and cupped Lindir’s face with his palms, a friendly gesture rewarded with hopeful eyes: «He never loved anyone but you. He is older than the sun and the moon, but you are the first and only one Erestor ever loved with such devotion».

Reassured, Lindir nodded.   
Then, tired, he leaned back on Elrond’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He could not fight, but he could pray for the Valar to protect his beloved.

« _Herunya_ Erestor, our defenses cannot hold them back!».

Hand gripping the handle of his sword, Erestor nodded his acknowledgment: he knew it was going to happen, no matter how many of his soldier he used to reinforce Meorof’s line of defense.   
Speaking of, Meorof was standing at his side, fingers convulsively latched around the sword he traded for his spear. Erestor had a decision to make.   
«Do you trust me?», he asked the lieutenant, still keeping his gaze fixed on the long path of the entrance.

Did he even have a different choice?  
Meorof nodded. Then, seeing Erestor was not looking at him, he gripped his sword harder and spoke: «I do».

Erestor grinned: «Good», he replied. Then, shifting his attention to his guard, raised the arm holding the sword in the direction of the entrance: «Let them break through. You know how», he ordered, voice rough and tone low.   
The soldier nodded and darted away, leaving Erestor with a disbelieving Meorof at his side; he looked at his sword, glowing a pale shade of blue, and smiled even more: «Time to fight».

As soon as the first wave of orcs hit them, Meorof understood why Erestor had ordered to let them through, and funneled all the rage following that order towards the vile creatures of Sauron. His sword plunged deep into an orc’s chest, the wound spraying black blood as he took the blade back, and Meorof shouted for his soldier to fight.   
They were too many, he realized. Too many to hold them back, so many that they would have killed the entire group of the entrance hadn’t they passed through. Erestor saw the flaw in their numbers, an acted accordingly, sending the orcs were more space could be used to maneuver around. They also had archers backing them up, arrows flying straight to throats and limbs, a huge advantage.   
No alarm was raised from the other sides of Imladris, were other battles were being fought, so Meorof had to admit Erestor was right even in that; the biggest strength of the orcs was there with them.

Slitting the throat of another orc, and watching as yet another fell from a well-released arrow, the lieutenant turned around and froze in place, shock overcoming him.   
Most of the orcs lay dead on the ground, surely others tried to run and were being killed by those who hid in the streets, but it wasn’t that first victory that captured Meorof’s attention. If was Erestor.   
Erestor, with a seemingly weightless sword in his hand, dancing on their small battlefield with deadly skills, every step taken an orc slaughtered; his weapon never stayed in the same hand for long, switching between right and left with such ease that Meorof could only gape.   
He killed with such effortless movement, showing his prowess in battle, and no one survived the flash of his blade. Soon, back blood tainted the blue glow, and none remained living.   
If Meorof hadn’t been scared out of his boots by how easily Erestor could take lives, he would have jumped in joy.

But they also had more orcs to deal with.   
With a simple gesture, Erestor ordered for another wave to bet through, and the fight started again.

Orcs were piling at their feet when a cry of horror resounded from the gates. When Meorof turned around to see what happened, his blood chilled. His soldiers were quickly retreating, backed up by Erestor’s, and chasing them… the lieutenant swallowed dry.

«A warchief», Erestor said. «Give me the banner».   
The Noldo was handed the fëanorian banner as soon as Meorof’s soldiers and his own reached the plaza, most of them wounded, some supported by their companions.   
He knew those orcs were more intelligent than their filthy warriors, bred solely for the purpose of war. They all had some knowledge, for Sauron had many insults, but dim-witted was not one of them, and made sure to have smarter chieftains. He always did, the Abhorred.   
Finally, the corrupted Maia’s pride was going to take the biggest hit of that Age.  
Before the orcs could reach the plaza, Erestor slammed the pole of the banner at the center of it; the banner itself, that he had rolled up before, unrolled in an instant.   
Enough for the warchief to see the star of Fëanor, and bark an order in his revolting language.

« _Foul brood of Morgoth_ », he spat at the warchief, a dangerous glint in his eyes. « _Who shalt dareth enter these lands shalt die by my blade_ ».

The time of a breath, all the soldiers Erestor commanded were behind him, their weapons raised and glowing. Truly a terrifying sight to bear, and more than a handful of orcs backed up and ran away in fear. Erestor grinned even more, ready to bathe his blade in blood.

For a minute, nothing moved.   
Then, both Erestor and the warchief shouted their charge, and the air filled with the clashing and slashing of steel.

Thrilling, exciting, intoxicating, the battle twirled around Erestor and he was back in his element, back to the place he knew how to move best. He hated the war, but the heat of the battle, the music of steel, the metallic scent of blood, those made him alive.   
And his that hate he thrived, blocking and cutting and killing. It was a dance of death, and he was leading it.   
His soldiers, charging with the name of their Lords cried out as blows found their marks, made quick work of the orcs.  
Knowing Erestor needed space, they pushed their foes away from the warchief, the glow of their swords almost lost.

It was the only fight he needed to win. Without a warchief, no orc would stay around to kill and assault.   
He eyed his weapon, dodging his blows, worried at the greenish tint of the blades he bore; poison, loathsome and of wicked origin, surely able to take down even the mightiest of elves.  
The orc was bigger than him, bulkier, but that also meant he was slower. His sword was massive, but heavy. Erestor only needed to find a weak spot, in order to kill him quickly.   
He ducked, barely avoiding a cutting blow that would have beheaded him, and winced as his helmet was yanked away by the orc’s hand. Too slow, Erestor scolded himself, reinforcing the grip on his sword. The armor of his enemy was thick, a mismatched assortment of pieces, and he cursed under his breath when another blow missed him at the last second. The blade of the warchief scraped his armor, but Erestor was able to deviate a following hit by raising his own.   
His entire arm vibrated with the strength of that orc, and he shifted to the left, as the right dangled numb.

Everything was silent, now. It was just him and the warchief, a cruel imitation of a duel. Erestor gritted his teeth and dived forward, aiming to a weak spot he finally located. The orc wailed in pain, and before Erestor could untwist his blade he got hit by a backhanded blow that sent him flying, landing on his back. The air knocked out of his lungs, Erestor had just enough time to roll away as the orc slammed his weapon down and got back to his feet, no time to feel winded. Blood trickled down his face, surely the landing earned him a wound on the head, but he charged again.   
Another weak spot, another successful hit.

Slashed on his calf, the orc lost his balance and fell, kneeling before the Noldo. With a malicious grin on his face, Erestor waited for him to try and attack again, then aimed at the warchief’s fingers; the thinner gloves gave way to the elven blade, and the big sword feel to the ground with an horrible clank.   
Disarmed, the orc was his to kill.

He raised his sword, eyes only for the small space between chestplate and neckguard, and sunk the blade into his neck. At the same time, a scream of warning came to his ear.   
Before Erestor could process the alarm, a blade stabbed him in the side, straight through the only open gap left by his armor. He stepped back, looking at the revolting grin on his enemy, and brought his hand where the handle of a knife was nestled between the two halves of his cuirass.

Erestor grabbed the handle and ripped the knife from his side, feeling weaker second by second. The blade was painted with his blood, and with the same green of the sword.

As the sun came up, Erestor fell to his knees, and then to the ground.   
Meorof shouting his name and his faithful soldiers screaming for help were the last thing he heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herunya: Quenya for “my lord” (heru “lord” + “-nya” my)
> 
> Elrond refers to Maglor as atya and to Maedhros as atar. I never know if the correct form is atya or atto, of if they’re both good, so… correct me if you know. 
> 
> Elrond and Elros were 6 when Maglor and Maedhros took them, in F.A. 538. When the War of Wrath started, in F.A. 545, they were only 13, though they had already been training with the fëanorians. More in the last chapter notes. 
> 
> I took the orcs’ hierarchy from “Middle-Earth – Shadow of Mordor”. Warchief is the second most important rank, after Overlord. Since I don’t like calling them overlords (dramatic, don’t you think?), the highest rank here is warchief.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter are the notes, this is the end of the story.

He minstrel sung of battlefields, light gone forevermore as darkness engulfed it in anguish. The fields were lost in sorrow, father and son torn apart by scorching fire. Red and gold mixed together, leaves fell from their branches, rivers and streams turned into blood as the sun rose again.   
Through violence and horror, unspeakable actions gave honor to those that remained.   
The field was lost.   
Everything was lost.

Ancalagon fell from the sky, monster destroyed by blistering brightness, crashing down the peaks of Thangorodrim and taking the mountains with him. Wailing in endless grief, the Maia of fire surrendered to Eonwë, shining knight adorned with feathers and silver, and blinded Morgoth was cast in a fathomless Void.  
Smashed down and killed, the Lamps and the Trees gave life to Anar and Isil, one chasing the other, and Eärendil roamed the skies as slow as time.   
Those who took part in murderous deeds were lost in their shadows, scared and alone, and then they sailed, relief washing over their faces, as unending sea-longing was ripped from their chests.

When the Silmarilli shone as bright at the most beautiful star of the sky, Erestor forced himself to wake with a start.

Disoriented, he needed a while to regain his bearings, and groaned when a sharp stabbing pain reverberated in all his body. His mind was still foggy, and his eyes struggled to stay open, but the room around him was comfortingly familiar; cream walls with a big arched window, dark curtains and bookshelves filled with books and trinkets, all gifts from the twins, Arwen, and Estel. The wardrobe against another wall, opened to show where his sword was hidden, letting the curious eye gaze upon his red cloak, the embroidered fëanorian star for all to see.   
It was his room.   
Erestor was laying in his bed, under too many blankets, but the more he came back to his senses, the more pain assailed him. A throbbing headache made him shut his eyes again, keeping in a pained whine, but he snapped them open almost immediately.

Beside his bed, with a hand that surely was holding his own before slipping away, Lindir slept with worry wrinkling his features. He was sitting in a chair, undoubtedly uncomfortable, and looked so tired…  
Erestor felt guilt creeping from inside, and stretched his fingers to hold his hand again. He wanted him to wake up, to smile and tell him nothing went wrong, but that small movement had been enough to send his body in another spiral of pain.   
It was his distressed moan that woke Lindir up, and Erestor got to look at the beautiful eyes of his lover only for mere seconds before he turned away, loudly calling for Elrond. The hand holding his own didn’t leave, though.

Before giving him time to think about apologizing to Lindir, the peredhel barged into the room and stopped just shy of Erestor’s bed. The expression on his face hit him so hard that the counselor thought twice before opening his mouth.

«Can you talk, Erestor? How do you feel?».   
Standing beside his bed, Elrond took sight of his general conditions and barely suppressed a sigh of relief; the cadaveric pallor was there no more, a soft pale glow of healthy complexion back in its rightful place. The poison no longer affected his body, it seemed, for also his eyes held their normal light and his breathing was finally regular.

« _I… I feel like a dragon chewed on me before spitting me out_ », Erestor replied, still too groggy to talk in anything but his native language, voice hoarse and throat parched. Lindir brought a glass of water to his lips, careful not to spill it, and the Noldo gladly accepted to take a sip.   
Immediately, without dryness in his mouth and on his lips, he felt better.

Elrond rolled his eyes at the response, and refrained from switching to Quenya himself only with enormous effort, Sindarin rolling on his tongue instead: «What a creative figure of speech, this means you are healing», he teased him, crossing his arms.   
Erestor tried to reply with a rude gesture, but as soon as he tried to move, the Noldo winced in pain and would have curled up on himself hadn’t Lindir been there to help him. Feeling at fault, Elrond sighed: «I cannot help you more than I already did, I fear. Your body has to heal on its own, the effects of that poison required quite the effort to stop», he apologized, sorry for the state he had left him in.   
He wanted to do more, as much as Erestor did for him in his young years, but Erestor’s fëa was stronger than his own. He was the best healer of those shores, but those who were older and blessed by the Trees were beyond his reach.

Erestor gave him a bitter smile, leaning his head on Lindir’s shoulder: « _You did more than you should have. You saved my life. You should have left me to die_ ».   
He was grateful Lindir understood not that language. The hurt expression on his dear peredhel was already more than he could handle.

« _Why do you say that? You saved my people, not just my land. You saved me_ ».

The laugh that left his lips was so bitter that even his beloved recoiled, and he kept laughing despite the pain stabbing in his chest.  
« _You could have lived with your family. With your mother, your father, your brother. You could have had a better life than the one my Lords gave you, than the one I gave you. Fighting, running, crying… these should not be part of a child’s life_ », he said, his old language flowing freely, as if time never moved on.   
« _Love Nelyo and Kano, if you want, but do not love me_ », he added, he nicknames he never dares to use in front of them a stab through his memory. « _I was the one that killed your grandmother. The one that shed the most blood among us fëanorians. The one that chased your mother before Nelyafinwë could see her. Why would you love me?_ ».

Those were things he didn’t know. And they hit him. They hit him hard.   
But they didn’t hit him as hard as the knowledge that Elwing preferred a jewel to her sons. They didn’t hit him as hard as the empty memory he had of his mother, always distant and childish, and of his father, who tried to be loving but was just as naïve. Six years they spent with their parents, Elrond and Elros, and yet their best memories were with the sons of Fëanor.   
Love, although a bit rough, came from Maglor and Maedhros, not from Eärendil and Elwing. It came from Erestor, from the warriors that did their best to protect them all, from the cooks and tutors and servants that always made them feel loved and _wanted_.   
Elrond never met Nimloth. Elwing never talked about her, never talked to her sons. She lived happily with her stolen Silmaril, watching the jewel more than he watched her own kin.   
To learn that Erestor was the reason of Nimloth’s death only shocked him for a second. To learn that he had also tried to kill his mother strangely washed over him without upsetting his spirit. 

He leaned down, asking Lindir to stand back for a moment as he pulled away the covers and examined the wound on Erestor’s side; no blood was visible on the bandages, just barely whiter than his skin. Good, he was really recovering.   
Elrond didn’t miss Lindir’s cheeks flush in embarrassment, and quickly covered Erestor back up. He had been, necessarily, stripped naked to receive Elrond’s healing, and the younger elf was visibly upset that his lover lay so bare in front of another elf’s eyes.   
«Forgive a healer, my friend», he smiled softly at him, but his face hardened as he looked back at his counselor: « _I will tell you something, Erestor»_ , he harshly spoke, suddenly taking back the bizarre accent of his _real_ family.   
« _I know how many you have killed. I know your sword is drenched in the blood of my kin, and that you followed my father as close as a warrior could. But what choice did you have? They were bound to the Oath, consumed by it so much that they had no light to spare anymore, no understanding of what was right and what was wrong, but you were bound as well. We can punish wickedness and evil deeds, but if start punishing loyalty, then only betrayal and deceit are left to praise. Our fathers gave me and Elros a life. They gave me and Elros someone that actually loved us, someone that could look beyond the Silmaril, even when bound by that fucking Oath_ ».

Erestor took in a sharp breath, and probably regretted it by the look on his face, but Elrond was determined to make him understand. For too long he kept all he was saying in his mind, scared to put it in words, but it was time.   
Time to grow up more than he already did.   
Lindir was silent, lost in a speech he did not know, but he couldn’t think about him at the moment.   
« _Nelyafinwë was so gone, so lost in his pain, destroyed by the Oath, by his shattered marriage, by his broken body, yet he loved us so fiercely that I was afraid I could burn_ », Elrond kept talking, reminiscing those days when Maedhros would just curl up on himself and weep, those days when his only comfort was to drown in wine and spirits, those terrible, terrifying days when he could do nothing but indulge in what forbidden help Maglor could give him, just to avoid him to fade.   
« _Kanafinw_ _ë_ _suffered no less, was bound no less to the Oath, committed no less crimes that his brothers, yet he cared so much about us that I cannot have any words for him but gentle and loving_ », he added, on the brink of tears. Maglor taught them his beloved Quenya, read to them night and day, sung so beautifully when they asked. His songs were full of sorrow and gloom, but for Elrond and Elros he always sang happily.   
Even when he braided gold in his hair and bedded his brother, Maglor did it out of love. He suffered, _agonized_ for telling himself to do so, but was never forced by others. His love, either pure or infected, was genuine.

« _I have no love those who birthed me. I have love for my family, and my family is you. Not just my fathers, Erestor_ ».   
Elrond had still one more thing to say. One last thing. And he smiled as he spoke: « _You taught us more than swordsmanship, my friend. You taught us patience, kindness, family love. You were there to support Elros when he chose the path of mortality, and you were there to comfort me when I learned of his death. You could have left, could have betrayed your word, but it is not the promise you made that kept you with us, and then with me_ ».   
He never believed Erestor stayed just out of a promise. He had no reason to lie to himself. And that he told him: « _You loved us, and then loved me, and then loved all of Imladris. And now you love him, in a different way, in a way you stopped believing possible. So yes, you saved me. You saved me by giving me the best life I could possibly ask for. You saved me by giving me a family, by gifting me a wife and children, by letting me have my brother back through his descendant. I will not swear, for an oath shall never resound with my voice, but I will promise you this: if you die, it will be because the Dagor Dagorath swallowed us all_ ».

Panicked, unable to understand what was going on, Lindir watched as tears began dripping down Erestor’s cheeks, flowing from his eyes as if he hadn’t cried in a lifetime, but was reassured when the Noldo’s hand squeezed his own.   
Tears of joy, he realized, not of sorrow.   
He let Erestor lean back on him, hugging his lover as tight as he could without hurting him, and held him close as he wept.

It took a while for Erestor to be able to get out of bed, but as soon as he finally managed to put one foot on the ground without needing help, Glorfindel quite literally crashed thought his door.   
Lindir, who was peacefully sleeping, woke up rather abruptly and blinked twice before blushing all over and diving back under the covers. Erestor laughed, pain no longer a close companion as the sound left his lips, and buried a hand in his hair. Luckily, for both Glorfindel and Erestor, he was dressed in nightclothes. The Noldo could already hear him screaming murder at both of them, hadn’t that been the case.   
Not that he would really murder Erestor, but if Glorfindel caught him dressed in but his skin… the counselor could not really ensure the blond’s safety.   
«Are you here to compliment me for the exemplar job I did as a captain, or to tell me not to do such thing again?», he asked Glorfindel, amused.

«I am here to tell you that you scared the life out of everyone. Poor Meorof could not sleep for two days, after listening to you shout at everyone», was the reply, just as entertained. Not that he condoned Erestor’s dramatic behavior, but admittedly it had been funny to see how the color drained from his lieutenants’ faces when he mentioned Erestor.   
Even funnier when they realized Glorfindel actually know everything about him, and still left him in charge.   
«Gwelion almost fainted when I confirmed that I indeed know who you are. You should have seen his face».

Erestor actually laughed at that, still playfully stroking his lover’s hair. Lindir poked his head from under the covers and shot daggers at Glorfindel for being still there, but otherwise relaxed.   
«I could tell you that I am sorry, but honestly? I am not», the Noldo shrugged. «Besides, I will not be scaring them anymore. You are back».

About that.   
Glorfindel dared to move closer, and took a seat beside Erestor; the younger elf, probably accepting defeat, sat up on the bed and glared at the blond some more before grabbing a book on the nightstand. To see that he wasn’t yelled at was a victory.   
But he had something serious to say, before going back to his smile: «The end of the War grows near, _m_ _á_ _lonya_. I will probably leave Imladris, when it will be over. If we win, that is».   
He had been thinking thoroughly about his decision, and ultimately found it right for him. With the Oath broken and the Valar finally learning how to be _actually_ wise (because Elrond alone couldn’t save Erestor from the brink of death, Estë had surely reached with herhands), anything could happen in case of a victory.   
They were too proud to directly intervene in that War, for doing so would mean admitting they faced yet another “Dark Lord Problem” the wrong way, but Glorfindel had no idea what the future had for them. If a ship for the West or their old land back, he could not know.   
But he knew what he had told Elrond, just that morning, and he repeated his words for Erestor to know: «If we succeed and I leave, I would have you become the official captain. Even if only for one year, I want these soldiers to be in your hands».

Erestor blinked: «You literally just said they are scared of me», he reminded him.

Glorfindel waved a hand: «Yes, you positively terrified them. But you also guided them so well than not a single soldier died. Yes, they all survived, even the ones at the main gate», the Noldo confirmed him, smiling. «Maybe give them some time to get used to you being who you are, but they will accept you as their captain».

«I will think about it».

«And that is enough for me. Now, how are you lovebirds faring?».

Lindir threw the book at Glorfindel with such accuracy then he knocked his golden circlet from his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dream Erestor is having is Irmo messing with him, aka the Valar being more involved with the "cursed" Noldor, as I like to call them. 
> 
> Málonya: Quenya for “my friend” (málo “friend” + “-nya” my)
> 
> Yes, in this, Erestor is the one that killed Nimloth. I don’t remember if it’s specified in the books, of it was just something like “she was killed by the fëanorians”, but this is what I’ve chosen. 
> 
> Gwelion: gwelu “air” + ion “son”. The Second lieutenant. The dictionary tells me that this might be a fan-invented neologism, but that’s also not a neologism? I don’t know, it’s weird. 
> 
> If you're curious, yes Meorof ended up asking if Erestor is a kinslayer or not (he asked Glorfindel though). I leave it to you to imagine his immediate reaction. 
> 
> I’ll say goodbye to you now f you don't care about the notes, and thank you for reading! You don’t have to leave comments or kudos, but they’re always deeply appreciated.


	5. Notes on the story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sneaked in some links to reference images, if I managed to have them work. Have fun!

If you're curious to know what Erestor looks like, it's a mix between [this](http://www.theargonath.cc/characters/erestor/erestortoppic.jpg) (which, to me, is so much a Noldorin look it hurts) and [this](https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/tolkien/images/a/ab/Erestor-Magali_Villeneuve.jpg/revision/latest/top-crop/width/360/height/450?cb=20170109233935&path-prefix=it). I would love to draw him, but I tried and subsequently realized I can only draw Saint Seiya characters and nothing else. 

Anything regarding Maglor breaking the Oath, up to this entry in the series, can be found in “A Gifted Mistake”. I still have to elaborate on it.

As far as I know, a captain is higher in rank than a lieutenant.  
Imladris has a captain (normally Glorfindel, in this case Erestor), followed by Elladan and Elrohir (they have more authority as they are Elrond’s sons), followed by First and Second lieutenant (Meorof and Gwelion), followed by four sub-lieutenants. The rest are simple soldiers. This ranks are literally a mix-and-match of army titles.

According to what I’ve read online, Meorof is Figwit’s brother. If you don’t know who Figwit is (I doubt you don’t, but hey why not saying it), he is the elf that is seen talking with Arwen as they leave Middle Earth, in the movies. Since it has been said that Figwit and Lindir are two separate characters (despite being played by the same actor, let’s praise Bret McKenzie), I see them as such. Unlike his brother, Figwit is not a warrior.

Lindir is a character often treated like a shy and somewhat weak elf, in many fanworks I’ve read, and although I don’t dislike it, I prefer him being a bit more strong-willed. Still emotional, but not as naïve and young as I often see. He needs to be stronger to be with my Erestor, in my opinion.  
I know this is not a really explored couple, not as much as Erestor/Glorfindel or Lindir/Elrond, but I love this dynamic way more than I’m willing to admit. That, and I legit cannot see Elrond with Lindir after Celebrían; if there’s something Maglor and Maedhros taught him, is undeniable loyalty. Also, elves falling in love only once and all that extravaganza, but Finwë decided to fuck the rules so who really cares.

The shift in Erestor’s behavior is intentional. What you see when he’s fiercer is his real personality.

Gil-galad was fine with the followers of the sons of Fëanor because, before being sent to Círdan, he was raised by Fingon and Maedhros for a while. In my universe he is Orodreth’s son, but as he was born with dark hair (not blonde like his father) and in difficult times (let’s say that Gil-galad’s birth killed his mother and his father couldn’t cope with that, I’m fun at parties), he was sent away to Fingon (and to Maedhros, you know the deal, they're a double package). No one, aside Fingon and Maedhros, knows the truth about his parents. I will elaborate on this in a future work.

The warriors of Imladris are not experienced against large numbers of enemies because most of them didn’t fight in the big battles of Middle-Earth. There are some experienced warriors, some that actually fought in the Last Alliance, but they are few and spread out compared to their companions. I see Imladris as an _extremely_ peaceful town/place, so a lot of survivors of the Last Alliance don’t live there. Is mostly a place where elves that don’t want to fight dwell in, and the soldiers are more experienced as scouts.  
This, of course, doesn’t mean that they aren’t competent or skilled, they just lack experience in specific fields.

For the armor aesthetic I was heavily inspired by Skyrim and Saint Seiya (mainly the [elven armor](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/a5/37/07/a5370786c2a9b017a2cea1877fd2fd67.jpg) and the [Sagittarius God Cloth chestplate](http://images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/40100000/Sagittarius-Aiolos-sagittarius-aiolos-40132226-640-800.jpg)), though I highly doubt I was able to give a good description of it. For the armor itself, steel plate armor was my main inspiration.   
Also, yes, I believe that early Noldorin armor was not that light, kinda delicate thing we see in the movies; it’s beautiful, and I totally see it being useful (these are elves, impractical and useful is probably their lifestyle), but these elves fought against Morgoth mostly in open fields. They probably charged at their enemies screaming at the top of their goddamn lungs.  
To say it in my favorite “Skyrim example”: Noldor and Vanyar wear heavy armor (that covers the entire body); Teleri, Sindar, and Silvans wear light or mixed armor. There are exceptions, and there are ceremonial armors and the likes, but this is my main idea.

To follow some movie examples:  
The [Rivendell armor](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ab/ec/da/abecda72ce808fc936e73e5321e8c107.jpg) is halfway between the two, while the [Galadhrim armor](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/31/2b/ac/312bacc7dd6a8ad8d71670ed399d1b49.jpg) is definitely lighter, despite its appearance. The [Mirkwood armor](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ed/e0/d5/ede0d5113dc5d02f31ea2caf7e3606bb.jpg) only covers half of the body (at least, I’ve only seen the [concept art](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/7f/dc/88/7fdc8856aa2bd9d5a7a0bfafa5782227.jpg) with more pieces), so it’s not as useful as the one from Rivendell, and it’s not considered halfway between light and heavy by me. The Rivendell armor is not considered generic Noldorin armor by me because I like the idea of Elrond having his own "style", even if the movie uses it for the Last Alliance as well.   
I know it’s aesthetic for elves to be seemingly so… ahem, dainty even in armor, but let’s face it. The Noldor were ready to kick Morgoth in the ass and they definitely weren’t going to do it while wearing only half the items.

Erestor's helmet, as I imagined it, is a mix between [Skyrim's Elven Helmet](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/6ac6f1_280d6f20241d4bbd80a698dfc4154ca3~mv2_d_4032_3024_s_4_2.jpg/v1/fill/w_4032,h_3024,al_c,q_85/6ac6f1_280d6f20241d4bbd80a698dfc4154ca3~mv2_d_4032_3024_s_4_2.jpg) (mostly for the sides) and [Rivendell's helmet](https://static.turbosquid.com/Preview/2014/08/24__13_36_48/01b.jpgc2cd6902-3f2c-48b4-a68b-550951c0bad6Original.jpg) (because surely Elrond took some inspiration, mostly for the main body minus the... ehm, thing on the top), with a crest/tail like [this](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ_E4k5LnHka_V0Tg2ouNy8KdcWCGqUl52UbQ&usqp=CAU). 

Yes, the Noldor had enough time and desperation on their hands that they basically invented vodka. Though, of course, it’s something that wasn’t replicated outside Amon Ereb. I can only shiver as I imagine the elves of Mirkwood discovering it. Let’s leave them to their wine, I don’t want to be responsible for the first elven death by alcohol poisoning. 

Maedhros and Maglor decided to start training Elrond and Elros despite their young age for fear of the war. Basically, they treated them like young adults, more than children, and talked with them about “grown-up matters”, as I like to call them, even though they were only 11/12 when they decided to do so.  
Maedhros taught them to fight, Maglor took in hand their education, and the twins were not spared anything: talking of war, death, even sex, for them was normal.  
During the War of Wrath their stayed in Amon Ereb, Erestor being the only warrior guilty of Kinslaying with them, though they knew Maedhros and Maglor wanted to send them away to Gil-galad (and that’s why them asking him for shelter is described as “they sent them away” instead of “they just went there after the War”).  
Erestor was the one that made sure the twins continued their training, while the people of Amon Ereb helped them in everything else. Since Erestor took quite a bit of his own fighting technique from Maedhros, being his first captain, the twins still fight like him despite having completed their training with a different person.

I know that it seems I hate Eärendil and Elwing, and maybe it’s true. I do dislike them a bit, honestly. Eärendil a bit less, since he at least has a valid reason to leave, so he’s mostly depicted as uncaring for the sake of the story. Elwing, on the other hand… I don’t like her. She refused to seek a diplomatic approach, even after Maedhros tried to just _talk_ , once again claimed the Silmaril as an heirloom (which, logically, is not only ridiculous but also false, the Silmaril was stolen by Beren for Thingol, from Morgoth who had stolen the three from Fëanor, it’s technically still property of the fëanorians), and literally _chose the fucking Silmaril over her own sons_.  
You can throw the plot at me however you want, I will never stop hating her for that choice.  
Elrond and Elros were already lonely by the time Maedhros and Maglor took them, already detached from their family. They never told the twins to hate their parents, or have ill-feelings in general, the Peredhil chose to dislike them themselves.

This hurts me a lot to write, but I do imagine Maglor and Maedhros sharing a bed in Amon Ereb, during the years after the Third Kinslaying. Maglor doesn’t necessarily want to do it, and neither does Maedhros, but sometimes he gets so overwhelmed that the only way to keep him alive is to give him Fingon. And Maglor, in my head, as straight black hair as long as Fingon’s, and the exact same eye color.  
Maglor was the one that suggested it first, out of desperation, and it’s the only thing that worked in keeping Maedhros grounded.  
Elrond knows because he accidentally stumbled upon them one night and overheard a conversation with Erestor, but Erestor himself is really the only one that officially knew because he was told about it (yes, Elrond never told Elros, but he eventually ended up confessing to Erestor that he knew).

Not all of the weapons of the First Age Noldor glow when orcs are near. The craft ended up being lost because all the ones that knew how to make it didn’t survive. And the ones who created _that_ particular craft, well… in here they are Fëanor, Curufin, and Celebrimbor (my personal headcanon is that Glamdring and Orcrist were forged early in their Beleriand days, by Celebrimbor himself). The fëanorian warriors of Amon Ereb are an exception because, well, Curufin lived there with his brothers. He probably forged the swords himself.

Regarding the “soft pale glow” of Erestor’s skin: I already said this in the previous work, but just to be sure here it is again. My idea of elves, despite me loving the crap out of diversity, is that they are so pale their skin seems to glow, almost like stars are under it. It’s not quite a human shade of flesh pink, but way lighter and almost glowy. Think vampire white, but a little bit more alive, since they do have a blood flow. As much as I know all the various artworks and fanworks depicting elves as diverse as humans, they are _not_ humans. And they were born under the stars, so it makes sense to me for them to be so “sickishly” pale. 

“If a ship for the West or their old land back”: I want to briefly explain this: one of my oldest (year old) headcanon has the impossible happen, aka Beleriand resurfacing and all the elves that died against Morgoth and Sauron (minus some exceptions) re-embodying and going back to their cities because hey, maybe they miss Beleriand more than Valinor. I won’t take this road in this series, but it’s highly possible it will be a thing in another. Who knows.


End file.
